She checks the door twice—once for keys, once for the small, ridiculous ritual that turns a routine evening into something like a promise. The kitchen still smells faintly of the dinner she prepared earlier: rosemary, lemon, the comforting snap of vegetables roasted until they confessed their sweetness. Her son is asleep; his small fort of plush toys is a landscape she knows by heart. Her phone sits on the counter, a bright, waiting moon.